


My Boss Is a Robot in a Jack Morrison Suit

by maewanen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22197913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maewanen/pseuds/maewanen
Summary: A prompt from @ventiskull on Twitter about an overworked secretary, a grumpy SC Morrison, and how Reyes is a bit of sunshine.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	My Boss Is a Robot in a Jack Morrison Suit

Captain Potter has seen a lot of shit. He’s been Air Force for most of his life (like his dad before him and granddad before that), and when the Omnic War broke out, he had some contact with the Strike Teams. Mostly just seeing them off and seeing them come back in with a few less souls among them.

He’s had to see a lot of shit to have high enough security clearance to be Strike Commander Morrison’s secretary.

But not even remote flying drones through Omnic-controlled wastelands could have prepared him for the sheer, unadulterated awkward hell that is greeting the Strike Commander in the morning.

“Good morning, sir,” he says, setting down the man’s coffee and secure tablet. This one is from the CSO wonks down near BWHQ, so not only is it password locked and encrypted, it’s also physically sealed. It lands on his holo-desk with an awkward thud and Potter physically cringes. He’s not a naturally anxious man, but SC Morrison just kind of has that aura.

Emma had always commented that Morrison - “Jack” in propaganda and advertising - seemed so handsome and approachable and kind, and yeah, Potter thinks maybe, somewhere, he’s got that capacity. The candid of Morrison pulling a kid out of the rubble during the sunrise after an airstrike is basically a meme at this point (me, my depression, my SSRIs, you get the idea), and yeah, Morrison’s a handsome man, but his blue eyes are dead inside, his brows are heavy in a perma-scowl, and while lines and silvering hair usually scream “daddy, fuck me up,” with Morrison, they whisper “I will end you.” The fact that he sounds like he drinks molten lead for breakfast really doesn’t help, either.

“Morning, Potter,” SC Morrison grunts. “How’s the kid?” He’s pretty sure Commander Amari had fed him a script at some point when some fresh-faced CSO went to HR to complain that Morrison had all the social skills of a suspicious potato. He’s got three kids now, and Emma’s almost graduated high school.

“Good, sir. Thanks.” He sets down the coffee cup.

The grunted “thank you” sounds like a hot vending machine to tell him to come again.

“Your schedule is mostly clear today. Commander Reyes is flying in from Belarus and will be here in an hour to debrief.”

SC Morrison slowly, slowly looks up, dead White Walker eyes glinting almost florescent from the reflected light of his holo-desk. Potter tries not to believe that he’s going to die. “I was not informed of this.” He’s not trying to be scary, he just is.

“I was lead to believe it was a last-minute arrangement, sir.”

He watches something tick over, then Morrison nods curtly. “Thank you, Potter. Dismissed.”

He returns to his own desk to field phone calls, complaints, reqs, scheduling, and PTO applications. There are a few days that he longs to get back into the ATC tower, but he’s got a wife, three kids, and he’s getting on in years.

It takes fifty-seven minutes before Reyes blows in, smelling like filtered air and cigarette smoke. “Hey, Potter.”

He doesn’t even bother to alert SC Morrison. He just reaches to buzz him in. Morrison told him only once that this was an acceptable break in protocol - Potter’s not there to provide security, he’s there to deal with shit so Morrison doesn’t have to. “Morning, Reyes. Good flight home?”

“Eh. Could have been worse.” He’s flown in a drop ship. He’s not sure there is worse, but you do you, boo.

“Morrison is waiting for you. Head on in.”

“Oh, I bet he is,” Reyes mutters and Potter winces sympathetically. He blows into the office and Potter puts it out of his mind as a whole bunch of FMLA paperwork lands in his inbox.

It’s only ninety-seven minutes before he actually has to get up and go into the office. He knocks once before sliding it open and nearly drops the tablet when he realizes that Morrison’s asleep with his head on Reyes’ lap and there’s a teddy bear holding a “Happy Anniversary” heart pillow.

“How the fuck did you get the teddy bear past me?”

Reyes just winks, grins, and holds a finger up to his lips.


End file.
